Incompatible Worlds
by MarshMella
Summary: Future Arya x Gendry. An oath made to the Freys finally comes into fruition. There is no more hiding from it. Not for Arya and not for Gendry.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones.**

**Note: This is a _future_ Arya x Gendry fic, which means that it's also an AU. There are also NO spoilers here, so long as you've seen the show. I'll probably be leaving this as a one-shot unless people would like for it to continue. Not quite sure how popular this pairing is. In any case, I'd love to hear what you think.**

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**Incompatible Worlds ~**

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The gate outside the workshop slammed so hard that the whole building rattled in its frame around him. Gendry didn't even need to look up to know who it was. Arya always did like to announce her arrival and, over the years of working in Winterfell, he had it fine-tuned to an art. Today, the slamming gate not only told him she was there, it also told him that she was in a bad mood. That never boded well.

"What's happened this time, Arya?" He replied without looking up from his work, a smile pulling the corner of his mouth upwards. He was used to her moods by now and had taken to tackling them with teasing.

"I wish I'd never come home."

He laughed out loud at that. "If I had a soldier for every time I heard you say that, I'd have an army grand enough to take the iron throne."

"Oh, ha, ha. That's very funny."

"So," he continued. "What is it this time?"

"You've forgotten?" She sounded annoyed. "Seeing as how everyone seems to enjoy reminding me recently, I find that hard to believe." There was a pause before she gave him the answer: "I'll be sixteen, soon."

His mirth faded a little at that. "Ah." It wasn't that he'd forgotten. He'd just sort of…_ignored_ it, perhaps in a misplaced hope that it would go away.

"Yes, 'ah'. It's a good job I didn't come here seeking wise counsel."

He forced a somewhat rueful smile. "You've always known that this was going to happen, Arya. You're a lady, _milady_." He dipped his head teasingly. "If it wasn't to the Frey boy then it'd be to some other highborn family."

"I never wanted that life." She continued boldly. "If my father was here…" She caught herself and Gendry, despite knowing better, tackled that half-finished sentence.

"Not even your father had the power to strip you of your name and family. And nor would you have wanted him to." He tilted the sword he had been working on, checking the flat surface for blemishes. He found none. "Besides, it might not be so bad, you know. Have you even met this man?"

"No."

"Well, in that case, it's _him_ I feel sorry for. He has no idea what he's letting himself in for."

He leaned backwards as she flung a piece of coal at him, finally putting down the sword to look at her.

The years had not changed her overly much. She had gained some height recently, though lacking the curves one might normally like to find in a woman. And even now, when she had been at home so long after her time out in the world, she'd retained a wild, recklessness about her. Her hair had never been left to grow long and was frequently slashed about the shoulders. Today, it had been tied back in a short, scruffy braid. He was sure that her mother and sister must have lamented on a regular basis about her unruly appearance, though he honestly couldn't imagine her any other way. Her face, too, had matured, her jaw strong – almost hawk like – but the look in her eyes had remained dark and fierce. Sometimes she scared Gendry and he considered himself a friend. Her betrothed was certainly going to be in for a shock when they finally set eyes upon one another. Arya was not your typical lady. But that, he decided, was why he adored her so much.

That was also why he had made a point of not thinking about her coming of age; knowing that she would be taken and there was nothing he could do about it. All the love in the world could not change his lineage. Could not make him worthy in the eyes of her mother.

"You're not taking this seriously." Arya snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him from across the room.

"I'm sorry, Arya, but what did you expect?"

"Would a miraculous way out be too much to ask for?"

"So, what's the worst case scenario, here?"

"He could be another Joffrey."

"Unlikely."

"Of he could end up besotted and follow me around like a love struck fool."

He couldn't help it. He laughed at that; loud and unrestrained. Arya had never been much of a romantic and he was glad to see that age hadn't changed that in her. "Oh, how terrible that would be."

"You have no idea."

"And neither do you." He pointed out.

"I was thinking I could fake my own death."

"No alternative?"

"Strangle him in his sleep?" From most, that would have come out as a joke, but Arya's tone held deep seriousness. Gendry didn't doubt that if this man pushed her into it, she would not hesitate to do what was necessary to be free of him.

"You could always give a bad first impression; make _them_ break off the deal."

"That would be _too_ easy." Arya replied, looking suddenly defiant.

"But?"

"But the man has too many children and not enough lords and ladies to marry them off to. Even if I was a blathering idiot with boils all over my face, we'd still have to marry."

"Sorry," Gendry shrugged. "That's all I've got."

Their conversation faltered then and he returned his attention back to the sword in his hand. The weapon was nothing special, no intricate design or embellishment at all. But it was well-balanced and strong, made with patience and a firm hand. He could feel her eyes on him as he tried to concentrate on his work and wondered – for a moment – whether she thought of him as more than a friend, too.

"If I was a boy I would have gone to join The Night's Watch with Jon." She continued after a moment. "Why shouldn't women be allowed?"

"Not all women are like you, Arya Stark." And he said it with more fondness than he probably should have, shifting awkwardly when her eyes snapped up to scrutinise him.

And then voices, loud and mingled with laughter, interrupted the moment and Arya was on her feet in the blink of an eye. "The master?"

Gendry nodded, trying not to look alarmed at her flightiness. "What's wrong?"

"I can't be seen here."

"Why not? You're always here. That's not any great secret."

"Can I get out through the back?" She asked, seeming not to have heard him.

"If you like—"

"—I'll find you later." And she darted by with effortless grace.

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"So, are you going to tell me what that was all about?" Gendry asked a few hours later when Arya had tracked him down. She was so good at finding him now, that he never needed to bother arranging a meeting place with her. How she did it, he didn't know. Perhaps it was a talent of the Starks with their affinity to wolves.

She shifted, uncomfortably, her fingers tangled together as she worded her response. "Mother says I'm not to spend so much time at the smith's. With you." The last part was said with some significance and his stomach churned. Arya was really the only reason he had stayed in Winterfell after their return. They'd been through a lot and it had seemed wrong to abandon her, somehow. He had been her friend long before he had been her…her admirer. "With the Freys so close to visiting. She said it's not_ proper_." Arya scoffed. "She's worried about gossip, can you believe that?" And then, slightly quieter. "It's silly, isn't it?"

He found he couldn't look at her. "Yeah, it is."

Arya didn't know, but he'd had a visit from her mother, Catelyn Stark, almost a year ago now. He remembered the conversation well. Lady Stark had spoken with the air of confidence and authority, expressing her gratitude at his being there for her daughter during her time of need. And then she had warned him – in the nicest way possible – to keep his distance. He'd assured her, then and there, that nothing untoward had gone on between the pair of them. And that statement remained true to this day, even when his feelings for her had deepened.

"She probably thinks you might cause a scene; challenge Waldron Frey to a duel or something." She kicked out her feet. "As if I need a man to defend my honour."

"Particularly if that man is a bastard." He replied lowly.

"Don't say that." She snapped.

"I'm only stating the truth, milady."

"And don't call me that, either." She turned on him, making him all the more aware of their close proximity. "Are you _tryin_g to make me angry?"

"Believe me, I wouldn't dare." He held up his hands in surrender and blinked in surprise when she leapt to her feet. She might not have been traditionally beautiful but her intensity was undeniably attractive.

"So if you were the son of a lord and not a bastard, would you fight for my honour then?"

"What is this all about, Arya?" But his dancing heart was telling him exactly what she was trying to ask. In another life, would he have sat idly by whilst she was taken by another or would he have fought valiantly to win her over? And even if she had turned down his offer, she was asking what she shouldn't. She was asking him whether he thought of her as more than just a friend. He didn't know whether to be struck with grief or joy at the prospect.

Or maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe she was simply trying to think of ways to escape a crippling marriage – through any means possible. Perhaps she thought that if gossip did spread, no lord – in his right mind – would want to wed a woman ruined by a bastard.

But the earnest look in her eyes said otherwise.

"If I was a lord, I'd be married by now." His words sounded harsh even to him and he watched as her fists clenched tight.

"Fine." She spat the word with as much venom as she could conjure and then she turned to leave.

Before he could even stop to think, he found himself standing, too – his fingers curled tight around her wrist to prevent her from leaving. She looked back at him, as surprised as he was, and then the surprise turned to annoyance. She wrenched her arm free and whirled to face him. "Gendry!"

"I'm sorry, Arya. I know what you ask." His heart was pounding again. He'd never even conceived that she might have harboured feelings towards him. Had this been a recent change? He had no idea. Gendry was certain there had been no change in her behaviour. "How long?"

"Not that long."

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes hardened. "I thought I could make my own destiny. Wield my own power without having to marry into it like other women. I'm a Stark. I shouldn't have to answer to anyone. I shouldn't have come home."

"But this is where you belong."

"No I don't. I never did. Not before my father's death and certainly not after." She ground her teeth. "This is a world designed for men but only because women allow it to be that way. If my brother can break his oath to the Freys, then why can't I? Because he is a man and I am not?" The anger surged from her and Gendry wondered how long she'd been keeping it suppressed. Fuming over her treatment, betrayed by her family. He'd always thought that she'd understood the reasons even if she hadn't agreed with them.

"Breaking that oath was costly." Gendry reminded gently, not willing to provoke her into violence. "Has your mother ever forgiven him for that?"

Her whole body was stiff, her face frozen as if she feared that relaxing might bring forth tears. Arya was not a crier and the very thought of her being on the verge of it disarmed him. Carefully, he reached up and set his hands on her shoulders. They felt thin and cold beneath his touch.

"You're wrong, Arya. Everyone has boundaries they cannot cross; men and women both. Promises they need to keep. Paths they cannot walk down."

He hoped she would read between the lines.

Her eyes were dark and dangerous again and for a long moment she didn't speak. They stared at one another, into one another's gaze and then he realised how close they were to one another. The evening was cold but now her shoulders burned against his hands, almost welding him in place.

Her next question took him by surprise.

"Why have you never tried to kiss me?" He started to fumble out a reply, except that she shook her head fiercely and changed the question. She could probably guess the answer to the first. "Do you _want_ to kiss me?"

"I—uh—_Arya_—!" He flustered, taken aback by the serious, businesslike tone to which she addressed the topic.

But she was not amused by his reaction, her brows pulling tight into a frown.

"Arya—"

"—I order you to kiss me."

"Oh, so now you're pulling rank?" And when he didn't get a response, he added: "Arya, you know I can't."

"Why not? Because I'm not on your _path_?"

Her head was tilted up openly and his hands were still on her shoulders holding her in place. It would have been so easy to kiss her then. To just lean down a little and claim her mouth; to let his carefully bound desire free and throw caution to the wind. For a moment he even thought that facing Catelyn Stark's wrath would have been worth it.

But something held him back.

Something that had been with him a long time.

He'd protected her – or they had protected one another – for a very long time now and he had succeeded in ensuring her safety. Succeeded in getting her home. Nothing had bested them. But now he had to protect her from something he had never envisioned. He had to protect her from himself. Kissing her now would only hurt her later when he would need to step back and watch her marry another man.

The pain of that realisation harboured deep in his heart.

"You can't miss what you've never had." He murmured a moment later, thinking how empty those words sounded. Sometimes even he was surprised by the strength of his will.

"That's stupid." She snarled. "And so are you."

Without any warning at all, she drove her fist into his chest and the emotional pain became a physical one. And when he looked up, gasping and clutching the place he had been struck, she was gone.

No, Arya Stark was not like other women. She was wild and untameable and any man who tried to take that from her would surely meet an early grave. Gendry hoped that would not be necessary. He hoped that, one day, she could understand why he couldn't kiss her—

—even if he was already regretting it.

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**Thanks for reading! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones**

**Thank you to all of you who took the time to review the first part of this story. I haven't yet had the chance to reply to you all individually, but all the feedback was very much adored. I was hoping to have this part done a lot sooner but it ended up being an absolute headache and was rewritten about three times before I felt happy enough to start refining what I had.**

**In any case, I hope the wait was worth it!**

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He had been there, working at the forge, when the horses had passed beneath the gate. A relatively small group of perhaps a dozen men, banners of their House streaming in the wind. Walder Frey – now an old man well into his nineties – had ridden in an enclosed carriage pulled by two huge, ill-tempered horses. If rumour was to be believed, his young wife had been riding with him.

Gendry did not know much of the old Lord Frey but what he did know left little doubt that he wasn't a particularly nice man. He was clearly an intelligent, shrewd lord. His latest wife, too, was apparently little more than twenty years; younger than the man's own grandchildren. It was not unusual, of course, for a man to wed a woman many years his junior, but the gap in ages was not usually so great. It was a trait that left a lot to be desired.

The blacksmith had tried not to be too obvious when he'd scanned the riders' faces, trying to pick out the one who was meant for Arya. He expected, perhaps, an older man, grizzled and callous as his father. In the poor, grey light, however, and with the men so wrapped up in furs, it was impossible to tell. He just hoped that whoever it was didn't hold Arya accountable for the brother's mistakes. Robb 'Oathbreaker' Stark had certainly infuriated House Frey and they didn't seem, to him, to be a particularly forgiving family.

Then again, perhaps they weren't the only ones…

Arya hadn't come by to see him again after that disastrous evening and Gendry wasn't sure whether that was a blessing or not. On one hand, not being close to her would make things easier on the both of them. On the other, not having a chance to offer her an apology was beginning to play on his mind. What if that conversation was the last they ever had? What if it was all she could remember of him? His refusal. His 'lecture' about how their paths could never cross again. And she didn't even know how much he had _wanted_ to kiss her.

The more he thought about it the angrier he got.

And, as the wedding got under way, Gendry stood alone by the forge, staring into the dying coals and imagining – with vivid clarity – what was occurring at that very moment.

Arya would be perfectly pristine; dressed in a gown designed to give the appearance of curves where there were none. Her short hair would have been wrestled into a style that – hopefully – hinted at something ladylike. Perhaps she'd even wear a cape of wolf fur, draped across her shoulders to keep off the chill bite of the northern wind.

And the Frey would be at her side, holding her hand, smirking at the thought of such a good catch. He'd lean close, still smirking, and give Arya her very first kiss (he assumed it would be her first) and then it would be done. She'd become a Lady Frey and after the ceremony? The feast – to which he was invited to attend – and then, at last, the _bedding_. The Frey would likely plant a baby in her belly and that would be the end of it. Catelyn Stark would be content and Arya would be whisked away to The Twins. And what would there be for him in Winterfell when she was gone? Cold stone, twisting snow and hungry wolf eyes in the shadows. Nothing more.

Snapping from his thoughts with a start, Gendry realised just how long he had been standing there lost in his thoughts. The time was passing him by and he'd not even begun clearing up for the day. In his haste to shut up the forge he picked up a tool still hot from the forge's fire and burned a vicious brand into his palm. His yelp set the dogs to barking – or perhaps it was the deafening ring of the metal prod as it clattered to the floor at his feet. And, as he shoved his burning hand into the bucket meant to quench swords, he felt something inside him break.

He should have kissed her.

Dammit. He _should have kissed her._

And now it was too late.

He was wrapping the blistering wound when his master returned; his arrival a clear indication that the wedding was done. "You still in here, lad?"

"Just finishing up." He dared not ask how the ceremony had gone.

The master eyed his bandaged hand sceptically. "Hm-mm. Just see that you're not late. You'll set them all to talking if you fail to show your face." It was well known in Winterfell, after all, that he and Arya were friends. If he wasn't there at the feast it'd kick off questions about Arya's virtue. And, as much as he didn't want to go, he couldn't do that to her. He'd show his face and try to keep his eyes off of her. It was likely, with all the flurry of guests, that he wouldn't be able to see her through the crowds anyway. He'd be on one of the tables closest to the door – as far away from Arya's table as he could get without being outside the hall.

That was what he used as a meagre attempt at comfort as he sidled up to the great hall doors – fixed wide open to let the people come and go as they pleased. And, no sooner had he taken his place then the call came for quiet. A rumbling hush fell over the crowds, with only a few lowered voices remaining. But, as the speeches began, Gendry didn't think he would have been able to hear more than a few words even if the hall _had_ been silent. The Stark side of the hall felt miles away, enforcing the point of his social status compared to hers. In any case, after Robb had done his part as 'Lord of Winterfell', attention was turned towards Arya's new husband.

Gendry kept his eyes fixed firmly on his drink, refusing to look up – until someone started jabbing him in the arm with an elbow.

"What?"

"Wow, you're in a sour mood. Lighten up, eh, Gendry."

"Sorry." He mumbled, taking another deep drink and leaning forwards for a refill. Two chasing dogs bumped roughly past his legs. "Been a long day."

"What'cha done there?"

"Huh? Oh, it's nothing. Just a burn." He replied, letting his dark eyes sweep across the faces of those on his table. Most of them were apprentices, with only a few exceptions, and all of them were eagerly preparing for the feast.

A thin, dry voice caught the blacksmith's attention during a lull and, before he realised his mistake, he turned to see the newly wedded Lord Frey raising a toast. It was hard to garner any detail at the distance they were, but Gendry thought him an unremarkable little man, slouched and thin with his furs pulled up close around his neck and shoulders. The cold clearly did not suit him. He was young, though. Closer to Arya's age than he would have expected.

A burst of laughter flowed across his table, jerking his attention back and, as he looked on, food began to be passed down, piling up on plates and filling the air with a delicious aroma. The food in the north was simple in flavour but it was hot and homely. Gendry knew it should have been wonderful but it tasted bland and dry in his mouth.

* * *

Gendry had drunk too much during the celebration and the laughter and the spinning had stayed with him throughout the following day, gifting him with little recollections of jokes, drunken mishaps and, more worryingly, girls. Thankfully he'd been too unsteady on his feet to be dragged over to the brothel by the time his fellow apprentices had gotten the idea and he'd been left behind with the rest of the drunken rabble.

He'd been too sick to work but thankfully, so had his master, and the day of recovery was shifting quickly to night.

He was just dozing off again when he heard a light thump outside his window. And predictably, a few seconds later, the sound of someone dropping into his room.

Arya.

"Gendry." She hissed, crossing the room in three short steps. "Wake up."

"I _am_ awake." He mumbled rolling over sluggishly and peering up at where she stood over him. She was dressed in boy's clothes, her mouth set in a long, thin line. The cold draft from the open window blew her wild hair across her face. "You shouldn't be here."

"Who's going to know? Are you going to tell my mother?"

"Only if I wanted an early grave."

She didn't smile, her arms hugging around herself. "You came to the feast."

"Of course I did." He replied as if he hadn't been considering skipping out on it. "I'm still you're friend, Arya."

She looked away sullenly and after a moment he sighed and sat up; his legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Arya hesitated for only a second before she moved to sit next to him. Gendry could feel the heat of her arm next to his, even without any contact. It was more tantalising than ever.

"Talk to me." He began. "Is it really so bad?" His voice was quiet but it still seemed horribly loud in the dead of night.

She didn't look at him and it hurt.

"Arya—"

"—I'm not mad at you." She snapped angrily, interrupting him before he could even get an apology out. The silence fell again and he lowered his gaze miserably.

"I hate him." She said at last. "And he hates me."

"You can't know that."

"Yes I do." Her reply was instantaneous. "I got all dressed up and he barely even looked at me. I could have gone dressed in rags for all he cared. And the rest…the rest was just…" She trailed and he felt the jealousy like a clenched fist around his heart.

She shifted awkwardly next to him and he risked another glance at her. She looked small and vulnerable and so very unhappy.

"…It wasn't how I expected it to be."

"Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head fiercely. "I can take care of myself. He won't hurt me." Her eyes met his for the fleetest of moments and Gendry knew the young Frey would be made to regret it if he ever did. Arya certainly could take care of herself. But she was still young and she had been through so much already. His need to protect her might have infuriated her but it was there all the same.

She continued: "I might as well have been a bale of straw for all the attention he paid."

An inattentive husband was better than a cruel one, he supposed. The Frey hadn't been rough with her. He'd just been…disinterested and hurt her feelings. Probably her confidence, too. But he didn't know what to say to her. He didn't even know why she was discussing it with him. Had she been hoping to spur him into a jealous rage? It was too late for that now.

He felt her fingers touch gently against his – cold from her evening climb – and his heart jittered nervously.

"Arya…"

"Just be quiet, stupid."

He did as he was told, only because he wasn't really sure what he'd been planning to say and her fingers curled against his until they were holding hands. He felt her shiver and draw a little closer, her shoulder bumping against his.

Then she asked: "Would you come with me when I leave?"

"You know I can't."

"Why not?" She demanded, her fingers suddenly holding his in a death grip. "Don't you want to?"

"_Want_ doesn't come into it, Arya. When has it mattered what any of us wanted? No one would permit it – not without good reason."

"Is being my friend not good enough?"

He looked pointedly at their joined hands and she snatched hers away from him as if in spite.

"You're a Stark." He told her.

She threw him an angry look as if she believed he was trying to rub her face in her recent name change.

"You'll _always_ be a Stark. They can change your name but they can't change your blood."

Her lips pursed a little but she didn't argue with him and after a moment she slipped her hand back into his, the tips of her fingers stroking feather-light against his palm. But it was only when she pressed a little closer to him that he realised she was trying to use her feminine wiles to seduce him. The thought made him smile. Arya could do many things, but this was not one of them. Her attempts were clumsy and inexperienced.

Then, at last, she gave up on subtlety and asked: "Gendry, will you kiss me now?"

His desire to do just that was immediate and for a moment a flash of sensible thinking raced fleetingly through his mind. He had to say no. He had to put a stop to this even if it _did_ mean living with a lifetime of regret. He had to be the smart one for a change.

She was turning to look up at him and the motion parted her hair so that it fell away from her face. Her eyes demanded a yes from him. He fumbled to turn her down, not quite able to say the words. And then her fingers were twisting in the collar of his rumpled shirt and were tugging him down with enough force that his back bowed and their faces drew dramatically closer.

His hands were on her shoulders in an instant, holding her at bay and fury ignited in her dark eyes. Gendry attempted to placate her with a gentle: "Woah, woah," knowing that the fury was there to hide an array of hurts that she didn't want him to see. "Not so fast."

If he was going to do this he was going to do it right.

And, very carefully (still not quite believing it) he reached across and touched her cheek, taking a strange sort of delight in the surprise that quenched the anger in her expression. Then, excruciatingly slowly, he moved forwards and touched his lips gently down against hers.

And the reward of it was as close to earth-shattering as a kiss could ever be.

He felt her breath hitch in the back of her throat and then her lips moved against his and a shiver of pure _want_ worked its way through him, drawing him closer.

Her mouth was cool and pliant and it didn't take long before the tender exploration escalated into eager passion. It was easy – frighteningly easy – to let himself forget that this was wrong. That she was someone else's wife. And, reluctantly, at the height of urgency, they were forced to pause for breath, giving her enough time to whisper his name before he claimed her mouth again. In the moments that followed, Gendry was dimly aware of the tightness of her arms about his neck, of fingers in his hair and the harshness of their breath in the dark.

When they paused again, oxygen deprived, Arya dropped back on his bed, her short hair like spilt ink across the sheets, her chest heaving with each panted breath. Smiling, he leaned over her to press kisses to her neck and jaw. Supporting his weight with one hand pressed into the mattress by her head.

When they paused again she asked: "See, kissing me wasn't so bad, was it?" And her fingers plucked at his shirt, forcing him to back away with a gentle reproach. The situation was escalating from one stage to the next and the danger of getting too caught up in the moment was becoming more and more evident.

"Just a kiss." He warned her.

But Arya's answering smile was nothing less than predatory.

Nevertheless, in the span of half an hour, she was gone again; leaving him with only the scent of her skin, the taste of her kisses and the memory of their closeness.

If he thought it would be their only chance to see one another before she departed, however, he would be mistaken. And happily so. They would not be the last moment that they shared.

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**Not sure if I'm completely happy with it, but there you go. ****I think I may do one last chapter to close the story.**

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones.**

**Note: Firstly I need to apologise for the wait on this chapter. I'm not going to lie. It was hard. Probably the hardest chapter I've ever written for a fanfiction before. Fortunately, after a number of rewrites I've got it to a standard that I'm pretty happy with. Secondly, thank you to everyone who has reviewed and for your patience with me! The response I've received for this little story has been...overwhelming.**

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In his dreams, Gendry had grasped his trusty warhammer, strode out across the cold, cobbled courtyard and called a challenge to the newly wed Frey. His voice had boomed with a strength that he'd never known it had possessed and, a moment later, a hundred faces were peering out at him. A cold sun was rising up at his back; throwing a tall, dominating shadow across the ground.

The Frey, of course, selected a champion to fight in his stead. Cowardly. Like the rest of his kin.

The fight, he knew, would be short but brutal and when it was done - the champion sprawled across the ground, eyes wide with surprise - he would lower his warhammer to the ground and look up to where the Frey stood, Arya at his side. And there, witnessed by the whole of Winterfell, he would declare his price for victory and revel in the palpable shock of the onlookers.

The Frey would refuse but Gendry would insist and before the sun had fully risen, Arya would be his.

Unfortunately reality had not been as glorious as all that.

In _reality_, he'd hidden away at the forge, feeding the fire until its defiant roar drowned out the departing procession. He had not dared to look over his shoulder to watch them go and later he decided that it was not the Frey who was the coward. It was him.

And how long ago was that, now? A little over a year, if he'd kept correct count. Twelve cold months of an ever worsening winter and days so short that it was a wonder the sun bothered to rise at all. Some had said that the days would become as dark as the nights before this deep winter was done with them and now – more than ever – the ravens seemed to carry troubling news.

Whispers of the dead returning to the world of the living. A struggling Night's Watch. A savage wolf pack led by some fierce alpha whose howl could freeze a man's very soul. Sometimes, Gendry had learned, the truth was more unbelievable than rumour.

Pulling his furs high up around his neck, he moved out into the drift of snow, stepping into the imprints left by those whom had already passed by. He had missed the warm, sunny days at King's Landing even more these past few months but that was all he really missed of the place.

But none of that mattered now. Despite being advised against it, Arya was returning to Winterfell before the snow closed them off completely.

She was coming home. His Arya.

Truth be told, he had spent weeks warring with himself over his feelings for Arya. Telling himself that it was done. That he'd had his fun and now it was time to grow up and move on. She had her new life and had likely forgotten him completely. Some part of him hoped that once she arrived he could come to terms with their separation and put her aside.

And he believed that he could do just that—right up until the moment he laid eyes on her.

She emerged amongst mist and sleet, her horse breathing hard from the pace she had ridden. Her hood was up but Gendry knew it was her by her posture in the saddle and the tip of the slim scabbard that peeked out from the folds of her heavy cloak. Close at her flank was one of the guards who had managed to keep up with her pace. The horses had been black once, but now they were brown and grey – caked in mud and soiled snow that would take hours to scrub out of their fur.

Arya swung down from the saddle before the horse had even drawn to a halt, landing on her feet with a cat-like grace.

And Gendry would have gone to her right then if it had not been for the sound of Robb Stark and his wolf, Grey Wind, crunching through the snow towards her. The siblings embraced; Arya throwing herself into her brother's arms, laughing as her hood fell away. Her hair was wild like it always was, her face pinched with cold. The direwolf ran circles around them, spooking the horses.

He had no place in this reunion, he realised. This was a time for lords and ladies. Not a baseborn like him.

Gendry backed away before he could be spotted and that night he waited up for a moonlit visit that never came.

* * *

The following morning, tired and miserable, he was greeted by a huge, black wolf and the young lord of Winterfell. It took a moment for Gendry to gain control of his momentary panic and greet the boy.

Rickon was a fair-faced child with a deceptively volatile demeanour that reminded him a little of Arya. Sometimes, though, the youngest Stark made him feel uneasy. There was a dangerous edge to him that was mirrored in his wolf and he couldn't help but notice that the other children seemed frightened of him.

"Wasn't expecting you at the forge, m'lord."

"You're late." The boy said.

"Late? For what?"

"For work, stupid. We've been waiting for you."

"Am I forgetting something?" Gendry asked, tending to the lamps and trying his best not to feel so intimidated by the beast standing only a couple of paces away.

"No. I've got a message." Rickon was already getting impatient.

"For me?"

"No. Not for you. For _Robb_." He gave an exasperated sigh. "Of course for you. Why else would I be here?"

"And you came here to—"

"—It's from Arya." Rickon interrupted. "But, if you're not interested, I can go." And he started for the door.

"Arya?" His heart jumped. "What did she say?"

The boy let the question hang for a moment. Then: "if you want to see her, she'll be at the weirwood at first light."

Odd. That wasn't like her. She was being careful? Or trying to be, at least. There would be no walls to hide them from prying eyes out there amongst the trees.

After a moment he nodded, his face becoming serious. "Thanks for passing on the message, m'lord."

"Rickon." The boy corrected with a growl; stepping back out into the swirls of snow. The black wolf joined him and, together, they tore off into the cold; breath pluming, swallowed by the winter.

* * *

She was dressed in a boy's garb beneath the swath of furs bundled up around her shoulders and the edge of her hood was pushed back just enough that he could see her face. There was a wolf with her but it was not Nymeria. Never Nymeria. This one was black as shadow; the temperamental Shaggydog.

He was glad, at least, that Rickon and Arya had stayed close – or grown closer in recent times, perhaps. The pair were of a kind and Shaggydog seemed to sense that, too.

Arya was stroking the wolf's ears when he reached them.

"You're early." She said in way of greeting, an impish smile on her face.

"So are you."

There was a short moment of silence and then she was throwing herself at him, her arms tight around his waist, her body pressed against his. And before he could even comprehend the wonder of being close to her again, they were kissing.

Her lips were cold and rough beneath his and yet they awakened fire inside of him. The kiss – meant to be chaste and gentle – deepened and deepened until his lungs felt set to burst.

When at last they pulled away, her expression was smug and contented. "You didn't stop me this time."

"I gave up on that." He replied. "Don't you remember, m'lady?"

She punched him half-heartedly. "Sorry I couldn't come sooner. My mother wouldn't let me out of her sight. Even now she's suspicious! Robb tried to talk some sense into her but that didn't end too well." She rolled her eyes.

"Well, she isn't wrong, is she?"

"No," Arya agreed, shoving hair back away from her face. "But she doesn't have any proof."

Behind them, Shaggydog gave a whining yawn and sat down in the snow. White speckled across his fur like stars.

"Snow." Gendry pointed out needlessly, raising his head to feel the prickles of cold touch down against his face. Overhead, the thick, skeletal branches of the weirwood rattled; as if reminding them that it was there. That it was watching – even if the people of Winterfell were not. The blacksmith knew that the northerners loved their tree gods but - even after all this time - he could not say the same.

The craggy face carved into the tree's immense trunk, red with sap-blood and twisted as if in pain, was hardly a comforting thing to look upon. He liked to think that it had worn a sweet, smooth face once. That perhaps it was the trials of time that had weathered it and turned it into something sorrowful and tortured.

"You're nervous." Arya observed teasingly. "Don't worry. I made sure no one followed me."

He nodded; happy to let her think it was the possibility of discovery that had him on edge and not the unblinking gaze of the tree leering over them.

And then her gloved fingers were up around his neck and they were kissing again and he teased her by repeatedly refusing to deepen them until she was laughing and breathless and pushing him away. "You stupid, I can't breathe."

He relented for a time and they sat side by side, huddled close to the tree where the snow was less substantial and the winter a touch less cold.

"He was forced into marrying me, too, you know." Arya began when her breathing had slowed; dipping into the potentially dangerous topic of her life since leaving Winterfell.

"In truth?"

She nodded. "But he was smart enough not to act hostile towards me. Perhaps he thought if he ignored me long enough I'd just disappear. He had a cousin who tried to teach the 'oath breaker's' little sister a lesson, though."

Gendry felt the rush of protectiveness surge up at that—until he took note of her words. "Wait. _Had_ a cousin?"

"He fell down the stairs. Nothing to do with me." But the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth said otherwise.

"Are you safe there?"

"I have it under control. I won't give them my trust and if they try anything I'll make them regret it. I'm not like the pitiful women they are all used to. They underestimate me and I gain the advantage."

"It sounds lonely."

"He lets me ride. He lets me do as I please." She countered. "I visit the villages when I can. The people there don't know me."

Gendry's heart clenched with grief and bitterness. He would have let her have that freedom if he had been her husband. You couldn't cage a wolf and why would you want to? Its wildness was what made it beautiful.

"It's not Winterfell but I have my own space. And one day, Nymeria will be back at my side and I will never have need of a guard again."

"Nymeria? You have seen her?"

Arya shook her head. "No. The wolves need her now. Her little cousins. But when summer comes, I mean to find her."

Summer seemed a horribly long time off.

"Nymeria is the wolf putting the fear back into children's bedtime stories." It wasn't a question. The monstrous she-wolf in the stories could be no other.

"Arya." He faltered, watching his breath hang on the air. "Why did you choose to come back now?"

She shoved him. "You really _are_ stupid if you need to ask me that. It was now or never. This winter will be a long one."

"You Starks know your winters." He replied with a smile. "Winter is coming."

She looked at him with sombre eyes. "Winter is here. It's young, but it's here."

Gendry looped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. He hoped it would not be the last time they would share such a moment but it seemed more and more likely that it would be. When she was gone, winter would drive an impassable wall between them and its length had already been foretold. He might be in his thirties before he saw her again.

"Are you happy?" He asked; his voice low and soft.

Her only response was to lean harder against him and eventually he came to accept that she wasn't going to answer. Perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps she didn't know how.

"I can't stay here long, Gendry."

"Expecting someone?"

"No. I mean—I can't stay in Winterfell long."

He nodded, though he couldn't help but wish that the winter would come to his aid and send storms enough to keep her with him.

She turned her face into his chest. "We should never have come back here."

"But your family—"

"—my _family_ sent me away." The old anger came surging back, still raw and fresh as the day they had first spoken of it. "They knew I wanted you and they didn't care."

He reached out to comfort her but she shoved his arms away.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter now." Her bitterness cut deep. "My _husband_ is eagerly awaiting good news upon my return."

"News?"

"He didn't want me to come back to Winterfell, either. He called me foolish. He thinks..." Gendry felt her tense up. "He thinks I'm with child."

"And are you? With child, I mean." He asked hoarsely, his heart twisting in pain.

Arya growled, startling the direwolf beside them. "No." Then she softened; her voice growing quiet. "I don't think I can."

"I'm sure that's not—"

"—I don't care," she snapped. "I don't want children - especially not with _him_." And this time she pulled him fiercely towards her and they were kissing again - angry and forceful. And then she was beneath him, tugging fervently at his clothes; demanding more. For a time, he was even happy to let her do so – until a wash of cold air rushed across his bared belly and brought him back to his senses.

"Arya. _Arya, wait_! What are we doing?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" she huffed.

"We can't do this." He was surprised by the flash of hurt in her eyes. "Arya…you know we can't."

"No one will find out, Gendry. We're alone."

_The trees will know._ Gendry thought, looking around warily. The wolf had gone but the weirwood had not. It's red, weeping eyes watched, unblinking. Judging.

"Gendry, don't you want me?" She had meant it to sound annoyed, he was sure, but it sounded hurt and vulnerable, too.

"You know I do," came the immediate response. "But do you realise what you're asking?"

"Of course."

"Do you really?"

"Are you afraid?" She shot back.

"They'll have my head if they ever found out."

"Are you afraid?"

"_Yes_."

She was pressing close again, her fingers tightening their hold on his arm and he tried to quieten her with a gentle kiss - pressed to the corner of her mouth. When she didn't respond, he stumbled back to his feet, pulling her up with him by the hand.

She reached for him but, again, he held her back. And, before he could change his mind, he committed himself with a gentle: "not here."

The smile that lit her face had his heart leaping with joy and any regret he might have had died then and there. By the old Gods and the new, he loved her. He'd have been a complete fool to give up his chance to be with her.

"Come on." He murmured, taking her by the hand. "Follow me."

If only it was possible, he thought, for him to follow her when the time came for her to leave.

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**

**Not quite sure whether this is in need of an epilogue or not. Perhaps what happens next is best left to the imagination? Either way, I'll be writing some more stories about these two. They are so much fun!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters.**

**Note: Last chapter! And wow, this one was a lot easier to write. Thanks for all the support! Glad that so many people have enjoyed reading this story.**

* * *

Twelve years. Twelve long, dark years. Some days, Gendry had despaired. Some days he had thought he would never live to see another summer or that, perhaps, the winter would never end at all. That it would consume everything until there was no more food. No more life.

Nothing.

And Winterfell had suffered more than he had ever thought it would. Newborn children had died; frozen in their mother's arms. Toddlers had caught their deaths as the chill worked into their bones and attacked their lungs. The elderly had suffered, too, and with the passage of time, petered out altogether. It had become clear, too, that women were preventing pregnancy; holding off for warmer days when there babies would have a greater chance of life.

Occasionally a raven would arrive with news, but when it did he rarely heard what words it had brought. Most of the time, there was no word at all. Ravens weren't immune to cold, either.

Life had become nothing more than survival. Living on scraps of food, struggling to make a living. Even his apprentice had died of some winter-related sickness, wasting away to the sobs of his inconsolable mother.

And of Arya, there was nothing.

Nothing.

White Walkers stalked through the frozen landscape, slaughtering any not safe behind walls of stone or unguarded by direwolves. And those who fell rose again as dead men. Dead but living. Killers. Puppets. Mindless soldiers who felt the bite of winter no longer. And when the White Walkers came, the thick drifts of snow shifted from enemy to friend, slowing their movements.

And, in the dark, the flames of funeral pyres blazed. Those men, women and children would never rise again. They were the lucky ones.

* * *

The first sign that winter was on its way out was a gentle glow on the horizon – where the sun had once risen proudly up to light the day. It was there for only half of an hour, a strange sort of twilight, full of promise and hope. And every day since, that fragile light had come and gone; each time a little longer than the last.

Over the coming weeks, the snows began to thin and the world awakened slowly from its slumber. The people stirred into activity, the eyes in their hollow faces coming to life again.

They had made it. They had lived. The worst had come and gone.

"It were the dragons that did it." He heard the traders murmur. "I hear them Targaryens are back. They came and chased off the winter."

"With the winter gone, war will come again. You mark my words. Those dragons will want their throne back."

Gendry had never seen dragons, though.

The rumours soon died when the Lord of Winterfell stepped into the courtyard, Grey Wind with him. The winter had made them leaner and harder and the direwolf had a hungry, savage look about him. No one could say that Lord Stark had sat in warmth and luxury whilst his people had suffered. If it were not for the wolf at his side he could have walked amongst them unnoticed.

Gendry, preferring not to be seen, ducked his head and moved on, listening to Robb Stark's voice fading out behind him. If war did come again, he'd soon find his days forging weapons and armour. He'd need another apprentice before too long. One to replace that poor dead boy who had shown such promise. But he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Winter, at last, was coming to an end and Gendry was three-and-thirty.

But still, there was no more news of Arya.

* * *

He was hammering steel when he heard the ruckus outside; though at first he paid it no mind. With the snows melting and the roads becoming easier to traverse, there had been people arriving every day to trade or reunite themselves with family.

It was only when a young knight - wearing Frey colours - appeared to request a new shoe for his horse that he realised just how clear the roads were becoming.

"You come all the way from the Twins, ser?"

"We have."

"Good to know the roads are becoming usable again. What brings you this far north?" Perhaps he might find some way to make the journey down to Arya. Surprise her with a visit instead of the other way around. There were other smiths who could craft in his stead. For a time, anyway.

"We accompany the Lady Arya."

Gendry hoped he kept the shock from his face, trying desperately to seem unfazed. But despite his casual smile, inside he was shaking and nervous and afraid. At last, he said: "it has been a long winter. Come to see her family, I suppose?"

"That's right."

"How long do you plan to stay?"

"A while, I should think."

Gendry wondered how long that would be. Wondered whether he and Arya would be allowed to talk freely now that so much time had passed. Her mother was no longer in the best of health. Surely she would not be so intent on making sure her daughter kept her distance from him.

_Surely_…

Determined to find out, he pulled on his coat and stepped out into the cold courtyard—and almost straight into the path of a young boy tearing his way past the forge.

"Woah, careful there, what's the hurry?"

The boy – who had quickly regained his balance – span to face the blacksmith; chirping a cheeky apology. He had a mop of scruffy, dark hair that tussled down into lively blue eyes.

"The knights are going to train," he explained. "I'm going to train, too."

"A little small to be a knight, aren't you?"

He straightened, looking comically offended. "I'm one-and-ten."

"Almost a man grown, then," Gendry replied, smiling with amusement.

"I have a sword, too," the boy retorted. "_And_ I know how to use it."

Gendry's eyes flicked to the slender sword at his hip and the smile dropped off of his face. "Who gave you that sword?"

"My mother."

He knew the answer before the boy had spoken but hearing the words still twisted pain into his heart. This boy…this boy with his dark hair and blue eyes…

"A strange gift for a mother to give to her child."

"You don't know my mother," the boy replied with a proud grin.

"Oh, he does."

She had slipped up beside them so quietly that – until that moment – neither had noticed her approach.

At the sound of her voice, Gendry jolted upright, his heart slamming against his ribcage.

At nine-and-twenty, Arya had become a striking woman to behold. She may have been shorter than average, but her lean body hinted at a predatory strength. Her long face, with its strong jaw, was more handsome than pretty, but her hair was a little longer than the last time he had seen her. Her eyes – normally bold and fierce – seemed softer. Apologetic, perhaps. Or nervous.

He could guess at the reason why.

The boy…the boy was…

"He's the stubborn bull I was telling you about, Benjen," Arya continued.

The boy blinked up at him with those frighteningly familiar eyes. "You helped mother get home during the war?"

"Well…she didn't give me much say in the matter."

The boy grinned knowingly and Arya ruffled his hair.

"I thought you were off to watch the knights?" she said.

"I am."

"Well, off you go then. Later, you can show me what you learned."

The child bobbed his head enthusiastically and raced off, disappearing amongst the crowds.

For a moment the pair looked on in silence.

Arya was the first to break it.

"I'm sorry." Her voice sounded small, almost frightened. "I'm sorry."

"He's mine, isn't he?" This wasn't how he had pictured their reunion playing out. His hands clenched at his sides and she touched his arm; cautious.

"Yes."

"Did you plan for this to happen?" He felt his throat tighten with pain and her grip on his arm constricted.

"_No_. I would never do that. Gendry, you have to believe me." She sucked in a sharp breath. "I thought I was the one who couldn't have children. It's always the woman's fault, isn't it? Well, this time it wasn't. This time it was a man who failed to be a husband. Not a woman who had failed to be a wife."

"And no one knows?" he asked, grabbing her shoulders and turning her to face him. "Arya. Does anyone know?"

"Of course not," she bristled. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"She'll know. Your mother will see him and she'll know."

"And what will she do? Risk her daughter and grandchild by coming out with the truth? My mother would never do that."

He fought for a response, hating the silence hanging between them and the sudden churning of emotions in his head. And, after a long time, the only thing he could utter was: "I'm a father." But he wasn't, was he? He could never play any part in his son's life. Never be recognised as anything more than Arya's friend. He'd acted as an accidental surrogate, nothing more.

He looked up to meet her eyes and was startled to see that she was holding back tears. Startled to feel his own eyes burning.

"I didn't want you to find out like this."

But it would have hurt no matter how she had broken the news.

* * *

Later, in private, the pair of them shared a gentle embrace; almost consoling in nature. He kissed her brow, breathed in the scent of her hair, and wished that they never had to part again.

"There is so much to tell you," she had said when she had first arrived.

He had offered her a sad smile and said: "tell me about you. Tell me about Benjen."

And she had, with both joy and sadness in her voice. "I wanted to tell you. Send word. But I was afraid that someone might find out the truth. Afraid he would not last the winter. He came early and I was warned that he might not make it. But every day his health improved and one morning he looked up at me with his father's eyes and smiled. And he lived."

"Of course he did. He's got too much of you in him to just give up."

"The winter took grown men but it didn't take my son." And then she met his eyes and he drew back to see her better. "It even took my husband."

His eyes widened. Had he heard correctly? Arya was a widow?

"And before you ask. It wasn't me who did it."

Gendry smiled, despite how inappropriate it was to do so. "What does this mean for you?" _For us?_

"A Frey cousin has taken over my late husband's responsibilities until Benjen comes of age," she replied. "But there are no urgent matters calling me back. I intend to stay for as long as I can and I won't return until I have found Nymeria again."

"You think she still lives?" he asked, wondering how long a direwolf's lifespan was.

"She does."

He'd often wondered how she knew such things but had never felt able to ask. He didn't question it this time, either. He believed her.

"But when I do go back, I was wondering…would you like to come with me?"

His heart leapt. "Is that possible?"

She arched her brow at him. "Of course it is."

His expression must have still shown concern, because she leaned in and kissed him gently on the mouth. "We will find a way to make it work."

He believed her this time, too.

* * *

**Fin!**

**Once again, thanks for all the support. ****Any other GoT fanfic I write will now be in the ASoIaF section as they'll likely contain spoilers from all books (which I have now read!).**


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